Good Times Never Seem So
by Triel
Summary: Rachel's lost her voice and her friends. Puck can tell he's being lied to. They're not friends - and not NOT friends - but at least they're honest about it. Maybe the two have more in common than just being two hot Jews. Puckleberry. T for language.
1. Chapter 1

Good Times Never Seem So

T for language

Puckleberry

I do not own Glee, or much of anything. This is not an attempt to infringe upon anyone's copyrights.  
Please enjoy, and if you do, review.

Chapter One of Six

Rachel has never had a nightmare about losing her voice, before, but she's pretty sure that's what this is. A nightmare.

Because without her voice, she's nothing. There's no Broadway for just another pretty face, no Hollywood hot spot for wordless actresses. And she's not ready to be just another pretty face on a billboard somewhere, just a silent photograph in a magazine.

And even if she's loath to admit it, Rachel Berry is too short to model, anyway.

She has no back-up dream, no just-in-case desire. Broadway or nothing, failure is not an option. Being who she is, Rachel wants to work hard and overcome her missing voice. To shine despite adversity. But for the first time in her life, Rachel can feel her dream slipping away.

It's worse than a nightmare, and she wants to call Jesse, ask him what his back-up dream is, have him re-assure her that she'll get better, that she'll be okay, that she'll be stronger for having experienced what it's like to be just a pretty face.

She's half way through dialing his number when she remembers that he's not speaking to her. That nobody is.

She's lost her voice, and anyone who would want to hear it.

#

Rachel heads to school with a bright smile and a bounce in her step. She looks so happy, even she almost buys the act. She's wearing a pink plaid skirt, a warm, cheery sweater. They're all part of the costume, part of the act.

She's not the biggest talent in the school for nothing.

Rachel clutches her notebooks close as she walks directly to the Spanish room, too quick for the football player with the slushy, too quick for anyone to ignore her.

Mr. Schuester is teaching a class first period. Students are already at their desks, already waiting for class to begin.

Rachel doesn't see a single one of them. All she sees is Mr. Schue, and

"Mr. Schuester? I quit." She draws in a breath. "Glee club," she adds, as though there were anything else she might be involved in.

"It's just a little laryngitis," Mr. Schuester says, barely looking up from his lecture notes. "You'll get better. And the other team members are working hard to meet your admittedly high standards."

"You still have twelve members in Glee Club without me and I think it might be good to take a break, to allow myself to reassess my goals and evaluate how, precisely, Glee Club has improved or diminished my chances of attaining them. As you know, Jesse and I recently suffered a tragic schism. While I do hope he and I can be friends again in the near future, I believe separation is—"

"Rachel," Mr. Scheuster interrupts, "it's time for class to start. You're going to be late. We can discuss this during Glee Club."

Rachel looks around the classroom at the twenty-some-odd students seated in their desks, each staring at her. Her mouth opens, as she tries to find something to say, and then she turns and walks out of the classroom, right into a tall senior in a letterman's jacket. He dumps a slushy on her head, tosses the cup onto the ground, and walks into the class, not hesitating once. A practiced sort of dance, as though he's memorized the motions.

The ice and syrup sting her eyes, drip down her neck as a frozen humiliation. It's the perfect combination. It goes so well with her breaking heart and the empty hall.

Rachel reaches up to push the ice out off her face, to reclaim some small piece of dignity, but the ice flows down, a sticky, melting stubbornness that coats her hands. And if she felt something warm dripping down her cheek, it was just because of the sugar in her eyes. Certainly it wasn't tears.

#

She skips Glee Club.

Nobody calls to ask why. It's like they all know: she's lost her voice, her confidence, her _reason d'être_. She's nothing without it, and they don't need her. Not now. Not so long as they have other talent.

They have Jesse, and Finn, and Kurt, and Mercedes, Tina and Artie. Matt, Mike, Santana, Brittany. Quinn, and Noah, who aren't exactly talentless, either.

A perfect dozen, and she's the Judas Iscariot, the unlucky thirteen. Rachel can almost hear Noah's argument against that--what a stupid comparison for a Jew to make—but he's probably not talking to her, either.

When Rachel gets home, she wants to sing, to shout out the unhappiness with an upbeat song. But without her voice, all she can do is turn the music up, until she can feel it echoing her heartbeat. It's not the same, but she dances.

Rachel Berry may not have her voice, may not be able to sing along to the music, but she can still feel it. She can still be a part of it. And besides, she refuses to be just another pretty face.

Glee Club without Rachel is quiet, and not just because she isn't there to talk the whole time.

It's like everyone has been thrown in the dumpster, and slushied, and knocked up their best friend's girlfriend, all at once. It's fucked up, and even Noah Puckerman knows it.

"We can't win without Rachel," Stutters says, holding hands with Wheels. The two of them have joined forces, because he nods in agreement. Pussy-whipped or just agreeing, Puck can't tell.

"You'll do fine," Mr. Schue says, handing out a new song. "We have a lot of talents here. Rachel isn't the only one who can sing or dance, here."

Puck picks through the notes to the new song, on his guitar, and then the makes the mistake of looking up at Mr. Schue .

Noah Puckerman, McKinley High badass and extreme stud, is getting that look from Mr. Schuester. Re-evaluating, like he's grown an extra head or some shit.

The Puckster does not like that look, does not like the way Mr. Schue is smiling at him.

It's not faggy or gay or however Kurt wants him to say it. It's nice. Apologetic.

Which meant Mr. Schue knows who made the Glist, and doesn't think he's done it, anymore.

"Who was it?" Puck asks Mr. Schue, ignoring the way Quinn tightens her grip on his leg.

"Who was what?" Mr. Schue asks.

"Who wrote the glist?"

"It doesn't matter," Mr. Schue says. "It's done with. It won't happen again."

Puck turns to look at Quinn, to grumble about secrets and bad reputations, but she's got this look in her eye, like she's about to douse him in kerosene.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says. "Play that again." And she smiles, and leans forward, and all the hairs on Puck's arm stand up.

"You wrote the Glist."

Her mouth forms a small o, and she class her hands together, "I don't know what you mean." It's too stiff, though, and too quick.

"You wrote the Glist?"

"It wasn't her," Mr. Schue says. "And that's enough talk about it. Are we going to practice, or just talk the whole time?"

Puck isn't about to drop it. Quinn knows something. Mr. Schue knows something. Everyone thought he'd done it, and he wants his name cleared. He also wants to know who would put him in third, because he knows he should have been higher on the list.

"Did Rachel do it?"

"Rachel did not do it."

"I took the Glist off her locker, so she wouldn't have to look at it all day. If she wrote the Glist—"

"Rachel didn't write the Glist," Mr. Schue said, louder. "If I hear one more word about the Glist, I'm going to cancel practice for today, and trust me, you all need it."

Puck stands up, puts his guitar away. "This is bullshit," he says. "Either Rachel wrote it, and used us all, and dumped us because she got all she wanted out of us and we're sitting here like used tampons, or one of you wrote it and I'm working with someone who doesn't realize I should have been a lot higher on that list I'm a stud."

Puck walked out. Because he was a stud. Because he was a man. Because he felt like he was being lied to, and he didn't like it.

A/N: Reviews are always good.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for all the kind reviews!

Chapter two of six

The thing about skipping Glee is that there isn't much else for Puck to do. Sure, he can blow shit up, or take out his frustration on some loser dweeb, or hit on some babe or another, but he already does those things all day anyway.

Glee might be a total drag, and the songs might suck worse than his mother's idea of home cooking, but it's something. It's different.

And Puck needs that, sometimes. Or maybe he only wants it. He isn't particularly good at distinguishing between the two, want and need.

He's still angry, still hurt. Either Rachel used them, or—

But he doesn't want to think about that. Because no matter how many times he goes over it, he comes to the same conclusion as everyone else. The only person reasonable to assume posting the list is himself.

He goes and gets a slushy. Grape, not because he likes the taste of grape, but because he likes the smell, and maybe some of the memories he associates with it. Not that he has any particular memories associated with it.

Kurt and Mercedes were too hurt by being left off it. Artie and Tina were too devoted to loserville to even consider it. Santana wouldn't have put him third, or Brittany fourth. Brittany, Finn, too stupid. Mike, Matt, no motive. He didn't do it. That left…

He squeezed the slushy cup, throwing aside any other possible conclusions.

That left Berry.

And it's funny, enough that he almost laughs out loud like a real Lima loser. A grape is a kind of berry, isn't it?

Puck takes a sip of the slushy. It's a little tangy, it's a little different than the cherry he prefers, but it's nice, almost, to be drinking the slushy instead of spilling it all over someone. And this time, he doesn't plan on throwing it on anyone.

But then, he doesn't usually plan on it. It just sort of happens to him.

#

Rachel isn't looking for something to do. She's trying to hide her misfortune from her fathers. Because the idea that she might lose her voice, even if it is only for a little bit, is something they haven't even begun to prepare her for. Their negligence is in that moment unforgivable.

And while certainly they love her, certainly they seek to nurture her, they have utterly failed at equipping her for a reality in which she might not make it to Broadway, a reality in which it's possible for her to fail, even if she is as tenacious and diligent as a human being can be, even if she sacrifices everything.

Rachel wants to hide, not just from her personal tribulations and woes. From the entirety of the world. From all the narrow-minded people who are unable to understand her, or do not care for her.

She's not entirely certain, but between both lists, she likely has everyone on Earth covered. Even her beloved Jesse St. James, fellow star, fellow aspiring star.

And maybe that is her fault, for being so different, so stubbornly herself, for failing to face her fears honestly.

And for being so vain, for wanting to be liked.

But no, that's so egotistical. So self-centered. To assume that she is the only aspiring artist to struggle is so indulgent, so unequivocally and irrationally superior. Surely there are others, surely there must have been before.

If Jesse St. James is unable to handle her compulsive needs, is unable to understand her, what of it? There are others. There must be. She's just not sure where they might be.

#

Puck has a slushy in hand and a repetitive mantra racing through his brain: must do something, must do something.

He feels like he's going to explode. He'd rather fuck a Cheerio squad full of Gleeks, would rather have a dozen fist fights, would rather talk to Rachel Berry, even, than wander around Lima like another Lima-loser. Like the failure Quinn accused him of being, of growing in to.

He shakes his head, not sure where Berry came into the equation, and then realizes: she's right there, just a little ahead of him on the sidewalk.

He looks down at her skirt, and then her curly brown hair, her teasing, lying hair, and for a minute the anger he felt at Glee club re-surfaces, replacing the frustrated pacing and desire for something, anything to keep his mind from reeling.

One minute, Puck is staring at her, imagining her writing the Glist. In a bikini, because even while blindingly mad, he's still the Puckster. The next, he's standing with an empty slushy cup, feeling more drained than the time he let Santana and Brittany talk him into an all-night sex-a-thon.

Rachel turns, her small mouth open in a silent protest, and the purple ice and syrup drip down her face, onto her ridiculous sweater with its stupid wide-eyed kitty on it.

He wants to say something clever – she's wearing a pussy on her shirt, maybe – but she just looks at him with this stupid fucking expression, these big wide eyes like somehow he's betrayed her.

He's not sure what to do – run? Offer her a napkin? He's supposed to be a man, and men aren't supposed to make girls cry. He's as confused as she is, as horrified. He's still Puck, a stud, a hot Jew, a high schooler. He's not sure what a man is supposed to do.

And then that same anger is there, more forceful. It's her fault, he reminds himself. She wrote the Glist. Or she used them and dumped them. Her own fucking fault, for being such a fucking diva, for thinking she's so damn much better.

No matter how he dices it, Rachel Berry is guilty of something.

He throws the slushy cup onto the ground, then, and grabs her arm, shaking her, drawing her close enough that he can smell her shampoo, can see each one of her ridiculous eyelashes. "Why'd you do it, Berry? Why?"

And she looks up at him, frightened. Afraid. Of him, he realizes, as his fingers start to shake.

He pushes her away, stung by that look, unable to keep his voice from cracking. "It had to be you, Rachel Berry, no matter what Mr. Schue says, and I am not a third-rank stud. I'm the top badass in the whole town. Or maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm a pathetic Lima loser. I tried to protect you from it, after all. Moved the Glist off your locker. So why'd you do it, Berry? To get Finn? Wasn't St. Jackass good enough for you? Or is it like your little video? Do you want a full set? Gotta catch 'em all? Fuck that, Rachel."

And she just stares, a moment longer, and then her fear turns to this shitty warm expression, like he's some kid doing something pathetic and cute. There's pity, and maybe a little sympathy.

"Oh, Noah."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three of Six

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews and follows! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

#

Ice crystals and flavored syrup run down Rachel's back, an uncomfortable sensation that she is almost used to.

What she isn't used to is the way Noah Puckerman is looking at her, his expression fixed in anxiety and uncertainty. His eyes fix on her with such sadness that she reaches her hand out for his. It's a strange urge, that need to comfort him, and something she wants to chalk up to their previous relationship.

Once upon a time, she'd helped him wash a slushy out of his Mohawk, hadn't she? And maybe they'd exchanged more than just a little saliva—maybe they'd exchanged friendship, trust. After all, it hadn't been terrible, being his girlfriend.

Noah looks down at her hand, warily, and then accepts it, delicately, like he's afraid of what she's going to do to him.

"I didn't do it," she says. "I did not write the Glist. Do you really think I would ruin my reputation so heedlessly had I done it?"

His eyes fill with tears, the stiff manly kind that float liquid in his hazel eyes, before he quickly wipes them away with his other arm. Rachel loves that look, loves the glimpse at his humanity, the way she humanizes him. "I guess not," he says. "But why aren't you at Glee practice? Afraid to face Jesse St. Jerk and Finnessa?"

"That's the Noah we all know and love," she says, becoming aware of how stiff they are, standing on the sidewalk together. Rachel starts walking, pulling him along with her down the street, aiming towards nowhere, meandering towards the high school. "Honestly, I would have been. But today, there are much bigger things to worry about."

"Like being covered in grape slushy."

"How very observant of you, Noah. I was curious about how that might have happened, do you have any explanations? "

"I don't know," he admits. "I saw you, and I was just so mad." He doesn't look angry. He looks hurt.

"That's not like you," she says, and she trembles as the slushy running down her hair oozes through the front of her shirt.

Noah pulls his arm free, takes off his jacket. "Put this on. I didn't mean—" He looks away, guiltily, as she shrugs it on. "Where were you going?"

"I lost my voice," she says, not answering his question. "I couldn't go to Glee practice. What good am I if I can't sing? Everyone would have laughed, and I don't know if I could take that, right now, Noah."

"You're right," he says. "We would have. I would have. But you could have worked on choreography, or corrected someone else. You're not useless without your voice."

"I didn't want to think about Glee," Rachel says. "I don't think I'm anyone, without music."

"You're someone," he says. "I like you best when you aren't talking, if you know what I mean." He grins, and Rachel can feel her pulse speeding up. His bad boy image isn't the only thing about him that is hot.

And Rachel laughs, because that's such a Puck thing to say.

"My dads are going to be disappointed," she says. "I usually clean off the mess before I go home. They don't know—" she stops, not wanting to put more blame on Noah. It's that look, the way he'd stared at her after he'd thrown the slushy. Fragile.

"They don't know I torment you," he says. "They don't know we're mean."

"They think I have friends," she admits, walking comfortably close to him. "They wish you'd come over again. They liked you."

"Parents do not like the Puckster," he says. "Unless it's hot cougars."

And somehow, Rachel suddenly doesn't feel like she's lost herself, not really.

#

Walking with Rachel, even if she's dripping in slushy and unable to sing, isn't that bad. Not that he'd admit it to anyone else.

And she is a hot Jew, after all. Emphasis on the hot, even if she is covered in sticky syrup. He can think of other sticky substances he'd rather get on her.

And then, prompted guiltily by that thought, he puts an arm around her, drawing her close. He can feel the slushy coat his arm, and squish further into Rachel's clothes. "So, wanna go back to my place, Berry?"

He watches her while he asks, a smirk forming on his lips, self-satisfied and confident. It's a look women love, not that he has any expressions they don't. He's Puck, number one badass, top stud in Lima. He oozes that confidence, and tilts his chin up, inviting.

Rachel's eyes widen, and she draws in a sharp breath, stiffening against him. "I, ah, I appreciate the offer, Noah, but I'm in a relationship with Jesse. Or I was. And I don't think it's quite appropriate to – "

"My mom and sister are home," he says, momentarily disappointed. "I meant to clean off. I can lend you a shirt."

"Oh. That's actually decent of you, Noah."

"Well hell, I'm man, Berry." And even though five minutes before he wanted to strangle her, he's kind of glad he ran into Rachel Berry.

They walk in a comfortable silence towards Puck's Truck, and then Rachel ruins it.

"Why'd you think I wrote the Glist?"

"You skipped practice." He's still hoping she'll drop it, except that she has that look, and it's kind of hot, how her face crinkles as she thinks.

"So did you," she reminds him.

"Fuck no, I walked out."

"It could have been Santana or Kurt," Rachel offers, because if she's honest, they've been her top suspects.

He drops his arm from around Rachel. He doesn't really want to be having this conversation with her, even if she is looking hotter than ever. Rachel is logical, and she's not going to half-ass the list just to make him feel better.

"Santana wouldn't have put Brittany at fourth. "

"And Mercedes wasn't on the glist. No way Kurt would do that to like that her. Then Brittany or Mercedes?"

"Beyonce wouldn't leave Twinkle-toes off, either. And Brittany doesn't know negative numbers," Puck reminds her.

"Finn?"

"Finn he hates Quinn. And me," Puck acknowledges. "And you, now."

"He's not the sneaky type," Rachel decides. "I know Finn. I know Finn better than Finn does. He's hurt, but he's not the list type. But Artie is. Tina and Artie could have done it."

"Stutters and Wheels? Really?"

"I see what you mean. Tina and Artie are not likely culprits, that is true."

"What about your boy Jesse?"

"He's not my boy. He's not even speaking to me. I think… I think we're broken up. But no, he doesn't know about -- you guys haven't trusted him with our secrets, have you?"

"Our?"

"I'm still a member of the club, even if I did skip a lesson."

"Did you even tell Mr. Schue you were going to skip?" He stops at his truck, unlocks the door, flashing Rachel a cocky smile before nodding towards the passenger door. "Get in."

"Thank you," she says, ignoring his look. "And no, I didn't."

"Feel badass for skipping?"

She offers him a smile. "Why yes, Noah, I think I do. Matt or Mike?"

"No motive. Posting the list actually hurts them more than it helps them. Especially if either of them want to tap San or Brittany any time this year. Which, who wouldn't? Brittany may be dumb as a duck, but and San are a great fuck."

"Tina saw you posting a list," Rachel says, changing the subject.

"I was moving it off your locker," he says. "Didn't want you to see that shirt first thing the morning. You'd have been impossible all day."

"Thank you for, Noah, that is very sweet of you. But I do believe that leaves just one person left in Glee club who might have posted the list. Someone with motive, and something to gain." She buckles her seatbelt, the click somehow making the statement more definitive.

"Don't say it," Noah says, starting his truck and pulling out of the McKinley High parking lot. "I don't want to hear it."

"You had to know," she says.

"Shut the fuck up, Berry." He turns on the radio, turns the volume up. He doesn't recognize the song, and neither does Rachel, judging by the way she's looking at him. That suits him just fine. He doesn't want either of them to start singing.

She reaches forward, turns the music down. "I don't like music as much when I can't sing along."

"You really lost your voice?"

"It's laryngitis," she says. "I'll be fine. I'll get better, anyway."

"You're always fine," Puck says, "especially in that little purple skirt of yours, on your bed, on top of me."

"Really, Noah? I confess my inner fears and you go to that?"

"It's a good memory. We were good, together, weren't we?"

"Yes, Noah," she agrees. "But you love…" She hesitates on the name. He hadn't wanted to hear it, earlier. "Quinn," Rachel says. "You love Quinn and I--I had Jesse."

"If she cared about me at all, I wouldn't have been third." It's the closest he's going to come to admitting that Quinn had done it. The closest he's going to get to admitting he knows Quinn wrote the Glist.

He pulls into a driveway, and then parks the truck. "Hurry up, Berry. You're going to be late getting home, and I wouldn't want your dads to worry."

"That's considerate of you."

"Fuck no, I just want you to go away." He sounds tired, feels tired.

"You can take me home now, Noah."

"Get your ass inside. I threw the slushy on you, I'll take care of. I know how to take care of my responsibilities."

And again with that fucking look from Berry. Pity, sympathy, concern. Like he's a walking vagina. Noah's pretty sure he's sick to fucking death of that look.


End file.
